Slave
by Kaira101
Summary: Fenris had lived on his burning hatred of mages; it was what made him stronger, and shaped him into the elf he was known to be. But after a regrettable argument with Hawke, the man suddenly disappeared, replaced by the puppets of Danarius. Fenris must learn put aside his hatred in order to save a friend-if there still is a friend to saved. Rated T for violence
1. Chapter One: Unpredicted

Slave

Chapter One: Unpredicted

"Bloody Fenris!" Hawke snarled angrily as he shut the door behind him, stomping down the hall. His hands fumbled with the laces of his mage robes, but he was too angry to successfully unbutton himself from his garment. And so he continued to mutter to himself as he tore the long robe off his head, face heating with frustration. He tossed his staff aside, somewhere near the fireplace, before crinkling his robe into a ball and throwing it next to the staff with unnecessary force. Now clothed in only thin breeches and boots, he paced around his large mansion, growling beneath his breath as his hand flexed, itching to curl around the tattooed throat of a certain companion.

Fenris was impossible! Hawke had tried everything; joining him in butchering slavers, allowing him to be the one to slaughter any blood mages in their path, gifting him with wine each week—he even helped kill Fenris's blighted master's apprentice. And _still _the elf glared at him with the utter boiling hatred reserved only for mages. If Hawke even spoke, a snarl would grow on Fenris's lips as his eyes narrowed into slits. If he allowed mages to slip past his fingers or aided them with their escape from the templars, Fenris's eyes would burn with anger and he would scoff.

Once Hadriana had revealed the possibility of a blood relative of Fenris's, Hawke had attempted to ask Fenris of his opinion, in order to plan what to do next. Hawke wondered why he was surprised to gaze upon the furious glare of Fenris as the elf roared at him, speaking of mages' foolishness and greed. At that point, Hawke had had enough; he set his face to stone as he shoved past the elf—not the least bit gently—and exited the cave wordlessly and without Fenris. Anders was the only one who had the bravery to speak to Hawke that day, and was only rewarded short, stiff replies. Varric had lingered behind the two mages, remaining awkwardly silent, realizing the issue was not his to meddle in. Hawke was acting like a child, he knew. He would soon have to apologize with Varric and Anders-perhaps buying them both drinks at the Hanged Man. And Fenris?

Hawke heard a low, furious growl in the mansion, only to discover it was his own. He sighed, rubbing his hand on his prickly chin, absent-mindedly brushing the stubble across his jaw and chin. He settled himself on the chair near his desk, staring at the fire as he mused over what to do with the elf. He could not manage to speak with the elf for at least three days unless he ripped his head off—or at least that was how he felt currently. Perhaps a letter would be more suiting.

He swiftly retrieved an ink bottle and quill, before bending over the desk and hastily scribbling on a rough piece of paper. Minutes later, he set his quill down and studied the letter with thin lips—with slowly grew into a frown with each word. He grunted angrily after the third sentence and crumbled the paper in his hand, tossing it into the fire. Had a guard read it, a legion would be standing at his door by morning with authorization for his arrest for murder. Perhaps he should cool down a little longer if he wished to remain civilized towards the elf.

Exhaling slowly, Hawke stood and began to climb up the stairs toward his bedroom. Suddenly, a sharp, fiery sensation sizzled beneath his eyes, and his hand snapped up. He hissed sharply as he squeezed his eyes shut, and his hand gingerly trailed the line below his eyelid. He groaned once he felt the warm liquid touch his fingers. He opened his eyes to study his hands, only to find himself struggling to look past the thick red liquid coated over his silver orbs. These were the only times when he could see color—when his injured eyes bleed, the crimson liquid filling his vision, changing the bleak black-and-white scene he had always seen to a red forest, or red building. That did not mean he enjoyed these moments, for while they were filled with color, they were also filled with great pain and a memory—one that he would rather kiss Fenris to be rid of.

He swallowed sharply as the pain sparked and he squeezed his eyes shut again, allowing his hands to be his vision. Carefully he stepped—or rather stumbled—up the stairs, ignoring his pounding heart as the memory filled him—distant screams of dying men, furious shrieks of templars, and the roar of fire above him. Pain. Such pain. He was curled in a ball, crying for his father, the heat scorching his skin and forcing him to scream louder. A worried cry—the voice familiar, soothing, calming him as it called his name. Then the cold, merciless cackle slid from a man's lips. The pain increased tenfold and he opened his mouth to emptied his lungs—

A sharp whistle broke Hawke from his harrowing trance, followed by a dull thunk. He cracked his eyes open and peered through his blood to find a thin, crooked dart etched into the wood inches from his nose. Another piercing whistle whispered in his ears, and he instinctively shifted, feeling cool air brush past his cheek before another muffled 'thunk' resounded from his stairwell. He briefly saw the shimmer of the body of metal before he glared into the shadows, the blood now leaking from his lids and spilling onto his cheeks.

"An assassin? At a time and place like this? I was hoping to go down in a more dramatic way at an interesting scene." His light, gleeful voice hid the agony and fear churning in his stomach well. Swiftly wiping the blood from his cheeks, he displayed a wolfish smirk. "You, my friend, are not a very stylish assassin."

An annoyed growl rumbled from the shadows, and Hawke erupted a spark of lightning into the darkness. He heard swift movement as the spark crackled in the air before shattering into the wall, light bursting into the lone corner. He saw the cloaked form leaping into the air, and the shards of ice formed in his palm without thought. He threw each sharpened ice spike with precision, but assassins were always renowned for their speed and litheness. The form dodged each spike effortlessly, occasionally swiping several more darts his way, forcing Hawke to move further. He growled softly in his throat when one dart just barely missed its mark, scraping against Hawke's broad chest, drawing a sliver of blood.

He suddenly realized how vulnerable he was, with no robe containing magical protection and no staff to further enhance his spells. His bleeding eyes swiftly darted to his pile of belongings, which still rested next to the crackling fire. Setting his jaw, he raised his hands as two massive flames ignited in his palms, and he swiftly flicked his hand forward, waiting for the assassin to move. The cloaked figure leapt as the burning flame sizzled toward his lower body, his legs high in the air and twisting into a fancy form. Hawke smirked triumphantly and he whispered, "Got you." The flame left his other hand more rapidly than an arrow loosed from its string, and the crackling inferno struck the assassin squarely in the chest. The man yelped and was thrown back, his head slamming into the wall with a satisfying crack. Hawke threw himself down the stairs, tumbling across the ground until his fingers tightened around the staff. He looked up to glare at the fallen assassin—

-to stare at three other hooded figures, daggers securely fastened in each of their hands. Hawke huffed angrily, feeling the blood thicken in his eyes; he would be rendered blind soon. Twirling the staff in his fingers, he felt the magic in him pulse between him and the beloved rod in his hand. The assassins all charged, and Hawke smiled maniacally.

The battle was built mostly on speed and instinct—on feeling and reflex. There was no time to think, just _act_. And so he acted. Sparks, shards, and flames flew from his staff as he twisted it in the air, its blade sinking into the flesh of his enemies with a disturbing squelching sound, their blood splattering onto the floor and walls. Each time an enemy fell, two more took his place. It soon became a battle against numbers, and Hawke was steadily losing. Long gashes spread over his body each minute, his vision turning darker as his eyes stung profoundly, blood practically pouring from them. He yelped as he felt a cold, stinging blade cut deep into his back and he stumbled, barely able to make out the shapes of bodies through the thick sea of crimson. He clutched his staff with both hands, his magic and anger mixing together as it boiled in his stomach, before flying through his hands into his staff. He roared and brought the staff deep into the floor, a wave of bright crackling magic exploding within the room, along with an earsplitting boom, overwhelming the shrieks of his foes. The torches and fireplace were immediately extinguished with a hiss, smoke flying into the air as the crackling intensified. Through his bloody eyes, he made out the silhouettes of bodies collapsing lifelessly onto the ground, their weapons falling from their hands with a rattle. Hawke loosened the grip on his staff, and the magic died with a final victorious whisper, taking the last of the light and warmth with it.

He sunk to the ground, clutching his magical rod once his knees touched the moist floor. His breath sounded oddly loud in the suddenly silent room, and he shut his eyes, feeling his blood spill onto his cheeks. Hawke took an intake of breath as his hand brushed gently against his eyes, a sudden spark of pain flaring in his silver orbs. Grinding his teeth together, he felt his fingertips warm as he began to cast a unique healing spell onto his aching eyes. An abrupt cry caused Hawke to halt as he stared blindly toward the sound, stomach turning to lead once he recognized the sound.

"Behind you!" his mother shrieked, and Hawke detected the pain and fear laced with her words. He threw his staff behind him in a wide arch, chains of lightning shattering from its end. He strained for the sound of an agonized grunt, a tumble of the body, or at least footsteps. And yet all he heard was the crackling of his own magic and his mother's panicked shouts.

Then Hawke ceased. It was not intentional or expected. He simply felt the magic that pulsed through his body abruptly halt, clogging in his limbs in small bundles, before slowly fading, like water draining from a roof. He struggled to clutch onto it—to clasp onto his only defense, his only haven. It was horrifying once the magic no longer responded to his commands, as if the door of his home had been slammed in his face and securely locked.

Once the protection of his magic collapsed, the pain came. It was excruciating; a cold clawed hand tore at his muscles, twisting them into tight knots before igniting them with bonfire. His head roared and spun, tumbling into a lake of ice-cold water before his vision burst into spots of black. His blood moved on its own accord, raking against his insides with brutal force. It felt like maggots had hatched into his stomach and began to feast on his flesh. It _hurt _so much he could not even scream; his mouth merely fell open, releasing short, strangled gasps.

And then suddenly the pain was gone, leaving his limbs aching and head pounding. The agony had greedily swallowed all reserves of energy Hawke possessed, and he had tumbled to the floor in a lifeless heap. He found himself panting heavily, and his eyes were completely sealed shut. He quivered in the darkness, sweat beading down his face. He dimly heard his mother shouting, but his ears no longer seemed to work. He felt hands on his shoulders, and he was roughly pulled up. A small, agonized choke fell from his lips as the pain sparked within his head, before fading slowly. A cold ruthless laugh boomed in his head, pounding it with the intense volume.

He felt more hands drag him up, jolting his insides as they harshly pulled at his limbs. He heard a sharp whistle piercing the air, growing louder. Then came blissful darkness.

* * *

**And thus ends my first chapter of "Slave"! Hopefully you did not find it too boring, and will proceed to the next chapter, once it is completed. I hope you found it interesting. Please, if you have discovered anything that you feel must be revised, please review this story, or PM me. I'd appreciate it! Thank you and have a nice New Years!**


	2. Chapter Two: Gone

Chapter Two: Gone

Fenris lingered in front of the large mansion, his scowl stiffening the backs of noblemen and scaring off wandering children as he paced around the entrance of the Hawke estate. His eyes wandered over the pale, vine-entwined stone that made up the walls of the mansion, emerald orbs studying the dark windows before settling on the wooden door. His lip curled into a snarl as he looked at the entrance with distain, and he halted his needless movements.

He dreaded the conversation to come, but he had decided well into last evening that he best apologize to the mage. Although he loathed admitting it, Fenris held a grudging respect toward Hawke; the man held a steadfast courage against any adversary they encountered, and his strength was second to no one. Which annoyed Fenris, seeing as Hawke was a mage, yet still held the bulking body of a warrior.

Fenris straightened his spine and folded his arms as he stared thoughtfully at the decorated door. How should he play this out? Yesterday had been a tempest of emotions; at first, a boiling anger had settled itself in the pit of Fenris's stomach as he, Hawke, the dwarf, and the _abomination_—his skin crawled at the very thought of that damnable creature—trudged through the cave, slicing the bellies of slavers and Danarius's puppets. His anger had turned swiftly into blind rage once he had laid eyes on _Hadriana_—that twisted, heartless _monster _the elf had learned to detest over the painful years as a slave. He remembered the fury bubbling in his chest once he had torn the still beating heart out of the woman's breast, and Hawke's calm, quiet—_comforting_—voice filling the room, asking if he wanted to 'talk about it'. Fenris had snapped at Hawke's demeanor, mistaking it for indifference. His hissed, snarled, and roared at Hawke, bellowing about the malevolence of all mages—how they deserved to be made tranquil, how it would teach them a lesson in humility. Before he could stop himself, he had spoken of Carver, and how the only mage was _powerless _to save him in the Deep Roads. Hawke's silver eyes had suddenly flared with an unspoken emotion, his soft expression hardening into solid stone as his body had gone rigid. That sharp intake of breath had snapped Fenris from his tirade, and the man was suddenly looming over him, his eyes dark and raging as the air had turned cold. Fenris had been struck with a chilling sensation in his bones, his stomach turning to lead once he could finally name the emotion—fear. The large man had stridden closer to him and Fenris had instinctively flinched. He had released a startled grunt as his shoulder was roughly shoved away, and he had found himself staring at the back of Hawke as the mage had marched silently away.

Fenris swallowed as he recalled the disturbing chill and numbness that had settled on him the rest of that day, realizing he had offended a potential ally. And so there he stood, glowering at the wooden door as if it was an abomination.

Should he simply knock on the door, wait for the face of Hawke to peer out of his house, and apologize politely for his actions? Fenris scoffed; the elf held a stubborn pride that would never allow the humiliation of such a blatant apology. Perhaps he should simply stroll in and allow his lips to move, to speak for him. Fenris shook his head suddenly; that had not gone well yesterday, and he doubted a different result would occur today. He had to take this slowly, to begin a conversation with Hawke and then gradually make his way toward the existent issue. Fenris nodded to himself, before sucking in a breath, eyebrows creased in determination. He stepped lightly toward the door, and knocked.

The door creaked loudly once Fenris's knuckle brushed against the surface, swinging open with ease. Fenris's hand was still held in mid-knocking stance when the door whined as it moved, exposing nothing but a darkened hallway. Fenris's brow furrowed as he frowned, peering into the shadows. Was the mage not home?

"Hawke?" he called out in his low, gravelly voice. He stepped inside once he received no answer, shutting the door behind him with a soft 'click'. Quietly, he inched down the hall, arms spread out to act as his second pair of eyes in the darkness. "Hawke?" he called again, stepping into a wider, darker room, his voice echoing through the silence. He hissed suddenly once a burst of pain spiked in his heel, a sharp offending object burying in his bare foot. Cursing lowly, he gingerly raised his foot and plucked the object from it, lips pressed thinly when the pain spiked again. He felt the article with his fingers, carefully running his hand along its cold surface and sharp edges. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light, he noticed the item was transparent, as he could see his finger on the other side. A shard of glass?

And then the stench hit him like a tidal wave. It was ghastly, rotten, and burnt, smelling of the strong, appalling odor of blood, mixed with a sharp, bitter stench of smoke. He swiftly slapped a gauntleted hand over his nose and mouth, but the reek already entered his nostrils, churning and twisting his stomach and weakening his limbs. He abruptly felt sickened, and competed in an internal battle to keep his morning meal within his stomach. He grunted softly, forcing himself to breathe out of his mouth even as his eyes watered, and he swallowed thickly. Moments later, his eyes adjusted completely, and Fenris came across a sight that clutched his spine and slowly froze it, curdling the blood around his bones.

Bodies lay scattered throughout the main room, sprawled out in the most unnatural ways, their blood splattered over the scorched red rugs adorning the Hawke mansion and the burnt walls. Any decorative item that once stood on a table or wall rested on the floor, shattered and broken as their pieces littered the floor. A wide circle of black stretched in the middle of the ground, burning the rugs and wooden boards. Fenris discovered the sharp, bitter odor of magic to come from the circle. Fenris stared at the body of one particular soul, who was crumbled against the wall, his head bent down to his knees and his arms extended in awkward positions. His heart thrummed painfully against his chest once he recognized the uniform, images flashing across his vision: Fenris crouched in a corner, begging the hooded figures to release him of their tormenting, Danarius looming behind them with a crooked smirk—a group of them entering Danarius's hall, holding a beheaded body in their clutches as they informed his master that their task was finished—one cackling madly as Fenris watched in horror as his slave friend fell, her neck bleeding profoundly, the terror eating at his bones, leaving him quivering—

Fenris heard himself panting heavily as he leaned on the wall, silently banishing the memories from his mind as the sweat beaded down his face. His chest throbbed as the elf gulped in air, the stench entering his senses again and leaving him lightheaded. He set his jaw in a tight lock as he snarled to himself. _Get a hold of yourself, Fenris. You are fine. Danarius is not here, he is no longer your master. Hawke aided you in escaping the magister's grasp._

_Hawke…_Hawke! Fenris heard himself bellow the man's name, eyes frantically scanning the area for any sign of him. The large scorched circle and the fallen men was no doubt Hawke's doing, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. Several Tevene curses flew from his lips as Fenris stumbled over the stairs, almost tripping over a small, wilted figure. He glanced at the figure for a brief moment, regarding it as another assassin, before inhaling sharply, memory sparking in recognition.

"Leandra…" Hawke's mother. Her old, wrinkled eyes were wide, yet cold and lifeless, staring into nothingness. A deep cut rested at the base of her throat where blood spilled onto the floor. Fenris felt the cold fear sink deeper into his spine. Hawke would never allow anyone to even lay a finger on her unless he himself was dead—or worse. What fate was in store for Hawke if he had been unable to protect his mother? Fenris shifted his gaze to the floor and noticed the smears of blood, indicating a heavily wounded body had been dragged across the rug. The trail led into Hawke's room.

Fenris unsheathed his sword, the ring of metal echoing in the soundless mansion. He steeled himself for what might be in store for him, muttering an oath not to lose his nerve once he faced the mystery that lied in his ally's room. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped stealthily towards the door before swinging it open. Again the stench of blood came to him, a far stronger wave then the last. His oath was immediately broken once the sight entered his understanding, and he gaped, the harsh, grim expression on his face falling into utter astonishment.

The massive bed was torn to shreds, upturned and cracked. Any and every item in the room was tattered, splintered, and demolished. The debris was cleared in the middle of the room, and there laid Hawke's staff, snapped in two, a dagger etched into its crystal. Words rested below it, and that was when Fenris's false image of bravado finally shattered. The substance the words were written in was in thick blood and Fenris tried to block out the voice screaming in his head—_Hawke's blood, it's Hawke's blood! He's dead he'sdeadhe'sdead. _It was only three words, but a voice came with it, along with a face. A cold, unsympathetic voice coming from the cracked lips of an aged magister, whose eyes were sharp, forbidding, bloodcurdling. His familiar voice whispered in his head as he read the words written in his savior's blood:

"_I found you."_

/0/0/

"I don't know what to make of it. An attack in this magnitude would have surely drawn attention. The noise alone would wake those in the Gallows!" Aveline's freckled face was plastered with puzzlement, her guards shuffling around her as they cleared the Hawke estate of the…mess.

"It doesn't matter how loud it was! What matters is who did it and what they did with Hawke!" Anders was frantic, his face riddled with anxiety and throwing up his arms in enthusiasm as he spoke shrilly.

Hawke's companions had arrived under an hour once Fenris had informed Aveline of the assault. They had all swarmed through the door, Varric at the lead, shoving away protesting guards as he demanded loudly what in the Maker's soggy pants happened to his best friend. It had taken a while before Aveline could finally calm down the dwarf, and longer still to soothe Anders, who practically thought of Hawke as a brother. Understandable, seeing as they were both mages. The rest of the party was more compliable afterwards, and Aveline was able to continue her investigation.

"Danarius is a skilled magister; it does not surprise me that he was able to conceal the battle with magic, whatever category it may fall under," the elf growled. Aveline was almost surprised at the indifference in Fenris's tone—_almost. _The captain did not expect him to act at all concerned for Hawke, especially after Varric had told her of the argument between the mage and warrior.

"Danarius?" Anders turned his gaze toward Fenris. "Your former master?" His brown eyes narrowed with a burning hatred, realization dawning on him. "So _you're _the reason Hawke is missing! Of course!"

Fenris's eyes narrowed as well, glaring at Anders coldly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"What I mean is that this seems a little suspicious with you being a mage-hater and Hawke being a mage. And now Hawke is gone!"

Fenris snarled angrily, stepping closer to Anders. "This has nothing to do with Hawke! Danarius wants me and me alone."

Anders braved to step closer to the fuming elf, his own vehemence surging through his body. "That's why he took Hawke! Because Hawke had nothing to do with it. Brilliant, Fenris! How about when you find them, you ask them to give him back because they aren't allowed to have h-"

"Enough!" Aveline's strong, crisp voice rang within the mansion; a tone of authority laced that one booming word. "Gain control of your anger, you two. Acting like bickering toddlers will not help us find Hawke. How he puts up with you two I'll never know." Fenris and Anders froze, the deep crimson slowly fading from their faces. Aveline crossed her arms and glared at Fenris. "You know the most of Danarius, Fenris. Do you have any expectation as to where this Danarius might be? Does he have a warehouse or a storeroom—something we could track him to and possibly find Hawke?"

Fenris returned to his trademark scowl as his eyes wandered the walls thoughtfully, pulling a dagger from his leather pouch. "This," he began, handing the dagger to Aveline, who studied it intently, "is what I found buried into the crystal of Hawke's staff. I recognize the carvings on the hilt; they belonged to servants of Danarius, skilled with stealth and archery. Their talents were often used as spies and assassins. I recall them holding a base in the Free Marches near the Tevinter Imperium. I imagine there to be other holdings, but that is the only one I know of."

Aveline ran the dagger's hilt along her fingers for another moment, before pocketing it. "Good. We have a lead, so let's follow it. I'll gather a squadron and we'll—"

"Oh, no no no. Not going to happen," Varric roared, stomping in between the elf and captain to gain attention. He pointed a gloved finger at Aveline. "No offense, Aveline, but I'm not letting a bunch of guards handle the rescue of my man Hawke. I'm coming to get him, and I wouldn't mind sticking this Danarius fellow full of arrows on the way back."

Isabella snorted. "I'd have to agree with our stumpy friend here; Hawke owes me coin, and if he thinks I'm letting him off the hook because he got captured by slavers, he's over his head."

Anders glared at Aveline with a cold determination, and the captain knew he didn't have to say anything to be certain he would be part of this rescue mission. She glanced at Merrill, who was nodding enthusiastically. Aveline released a sigh of defeat. "Very well," she growled, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "I suppose it would be foolish of me to deprive you all of saving Hawke's arse, for once. We leave in three hours."


End file.
